


Hungerlock

by Molione



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hungerlock, M/M, Not sure if this is going to be finished..., Sorry! D:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molione/pseuds/Molione
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John, from opposing districts, have been entered into the Hunger Games. It's a fight to the death - not everyone comes out scot-free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hungerlock

**Chapter One**

“You’re lucky, John.”  
  
John adjusted the blue collar of his button-down shirt brusquely, giving himself a moment to contemplate how he should acknowledge his brother, Harry, and his statement. Today was not considered luck. Today was the Reaping, and in Panem, that was a day when luck meant everything and also nothing. You were lucky if you weren’t chosen, but if you were chosen, there was nothing you could do about it, and that wasn’t lucky.  
  
“How am I lucky, Harry?” He decided to ask for clarification, keeping his tone calm.  
  
“Because you’re eighteen. This is your last year to be in the Reaping. I’ve got years left.” Harry sat down on John’s bed. John looked away from the reflective bottom of a dish that he used as a mirror and looked instead at his brother. It was odd for his younger brother to come speaking with him, especially on Reaping Day. They spent most of their years avoiding each other. John was eighteen, and Harry was ten. John had tried to take care of him, but when it had been spurned, he had given up on his brother. He was taking care of himself, and he clearly didn’t need John, so why bother?  
  
But now he was here, and it seemed he was looking to John for reassurance, something John didn’t really know how to give. He had always lived in dread of the Reapings, even though he knew he would be all right, somehow. At least, he could hope. He hadn’t ever been entered, but he had trained himself in forms of hand-to-hand combat, and went hunting outside the borders of his district, District Nine. He had learned the basics with a knife, but that was all. There wasn’t anything big outside of District Nine anyway. It was mostly open fields, for the grain, so big animals usually took to the tree cover closest to the other districts (which weren’t close enough to visit without being noticed).  
“Well, we’ll be all right.” John finally said in a falsely cheery tone, the same tone every used on Reaping Day. But it seemed like the only thing he could say, and his brother gave him a rueful smile, like he understood.  
  
The older brother coughed. “Come on, let’s get going. We’ll have to be on time.” John reached out to take his brother’s shoulder, but he had already slid off the bed and was out the door before John had started walking. He sighed, and followed after him to the central plaza, where they would all gather and await the Reaping.

In the distant District One, a different boy faced a similar concern.  
  
“Come on, Sherlock, we have to go to the Reaping. You don’t want to face Father if we miss it, do you?” His older brother, Mycroft, urged, waiting at the door. Both boys were dressed smartly in white button-down shirts, the nicest things they owned (and better than most children in Panem). Even in their nice clothes, though, Sherlock couldn’t face it. It didn’t scare him, really – fear was an illogical response, after all, even in this situation – but the idea of actually being chosen… Well, it made him apprehensive to say the least. He would have to win, if he was chosen. And that pressure made Reaping Day different for him, in comparison to others.  
  
Without a word to Mycroft, he rose and pushed past him to the door, his thoughts blazing past at a mile a minute. He was only sixteen, and yet had the brain of one far beyond his age. He was brilliant, everyone said so. He knew he was, too, but it was mostly that his brain worked differently than others. They were just so stupid and slow, and they didn’t get it without someone holding their hand.  
  
No one held Sherlock Holmes’ hand. No one.

“The time has come to choose one man and woman for the honor of representing their district in this year’s Hunger Games.”  
  
The rustling of paper. The moment’s pause to read the name. The feeling of terror and apprehension and fear. The last minute prayers to whatever deity you had left. No matter what district you were in, the moment of the Reaping was always the same.  
  
In District Nine: “John Watson and Emma Abbott!”  
  
And in District One: “Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper!”  
  
And so it begins.

How did I get here? This was the feeling going through John Watson’s mind as he waited. He was ready to go up into the Games. It had been so fast – the train ride, the glamor of the Capitol, the presentation, all of it – and now he was here, death encroaching on all sides. But somehow, he was totally calm. He was ready for this. Well, not ready, but he was prepared. He would fight, and he would give it all he had. Adrenaline was already pumping through his system. He would have run, faster than he had ever run in his life. Grab what was nearest to him, stay out of the way of the Careers, the stronger and (secretly) better trained of the tributes, and run for the nearest shelter. He wasn’t going to attack outright, not yet. He needed to set himself up so that if he needed to survive, he could. Then he could start killing the others. The thought was a strange one, foreign to his mind. But it did not scare him. He would do what he needed to in order to stay alive, and that was all there was to it.

The platform began to move and Sherlock nodded, looking up in anticipation. About bloody time. He was starting to get bored. He shuffled from one foot to the other, ready to move as fast as he could. He pondered over the techniques he had learned, and what would help him, what would keep him alive. He remembered Molly’s request, that they stick together in the Games – “since we’re the District One tributes and all” – but he couldn’t imagine anything worse. The girl wasn’t entirely useless in general, but to him, he might as well have consulted a dead fish for an alliance. He needed someone who could keep up with him, and that did not mean Molly Hooper. The girl had always had an unusual infatuation with him, according to Mycroft anyway, and whether that was true or not, she had always tried to be around him a lot, and that was annoying in and of itself. Sherlock did not want or need her help, and why she had decided to act like he was a ship and she a barnacle was completely beyond him. (And it was irrelevant anyway.)  
  
No, Molly was on her own for this Hunger Games. She didn’t need him any more than he needed her. She could hold her own, and if she couldn’t, then that was her problem, not his. Only he had to come back alive.  
  
Daylight blinded him for a moment, and he looked down, blinking to dim the light in his eyes. Once the lights had faded, he took in his surroundings, making quick mental notes, and discarding what was not useful.  
  
Other tributes – not useful, not until he could determine their strengths and weaknesses in the arena.  
  
Predominantly desert – important to note, will determine survival techniques most useful.  
  
Strips of green in the background – very important to note, possible source of water, will have to find and defend shelter against other tributes.  
  
Cornucopia filled with weapons and supplies – also important, will have to fight to the center for the best supplies. Other tributes might be stupid enough to challenge the other Career tributes, which means that they’ll fall that much more quickly.  
  
By the time Sherlock had finished his deductions, the barriers around the platform vanished and a horn sounded, and he ran for the nearest supplies, grabbing a short machete-like knife and backpack, slicing through a tribute who got in his way – he wasn’t sure which district they were from, but it didn’t really matter. He pushed toward the center of the Cornucopia. Those who still fought him were cut down either by himself or other tributes relatively easily. But there was one tribute, a sandy-haired boy who looked a bit older than he was, who fought with a knife as well, and Sherlock was finding that he might have met his match, at least with a knife.  
  
He had tried a simple slashing maneuver that had killed the others – _no need for fancy knifework here,_ he had thought – but he had blocked him with what looked like ease, unbothered by the knife sending red droplets splattering onto his face as it was stopped perhaps three inches from his cheek. Sherlock parried, trying to stab for his stomach, but he blocked that, too, using his wide hunting knife from one of the nearby packs to deflect the move, and then lunged for Sherlock, striking his side with startling accuracy. A flash of pain seared through him, making him wince in surprise as well as pain, and the boy made to lunge for him again. It went like this for a while, until they were forced against the side of the burning hot metal Cornucopia, the desert sun watching like an unforgiving eye on the fight to the death. Sherlock grunted as he kicked out, making the boy fall onto his knees. He lunged for him, in the same moment seeing Molly approach from behind, ready with a crowbar in hand to bash him over the head. Sherlock pushed the boy down onto his back, holding him down and looking like he was going to slit his throat, and yet the boy looked at him impassively.  
  
“Run.”  
  
He didn’t know what possessed him to say it. He could have killed him. Molly was watching him; he could have killed him easily and without a fuss. And yet here he was. The boy gave him an uncomprehending look, and Sherlock almost groaned in exasperation. Handholding, always handholding.  
  
“Run!”  
  
On the second insistence, Sherlock cried out sharply and fell back, holding a hand against his side as though he had been hit. The boy got up and ran. Molly looked after him, like she would pursue, but then bent down.  
  
“Sherlock, are you all right?”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know, what do you think, stupid woman? I’m cut and bleeding all over the place, and he got away!” Sherlock’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he sat up.  
“Don’t worry,” She said with an unusual angry streak. “We’ll find him.”  
  
Sherlock turned his head, watching the boy run into the desert toward the distant mountains. “Yes. I will.”

John couldn’t understand it. He had let him go. There was really no getting around the fact that the District One tribute had let him go. This honestly bothered him more than it should have, since he was still alive (which was rather the point of the Hunger Games), but he had let him go, for no apparent reason. Did he pity him? Was it part of his plan to attack him in the dead of night, to catch him off guard?  
  
Well, he wasn’t going to let that happen. John had found a small cave at the foot of the mountains, and he would be damned before he would let anyone sneak up on him. The desert took up the majority of the arena, but there were a few greenbelts, and a range of mountains rose up in the center, which was where John was located. He was waiting for someone to come and challenge him for his place, but he wasn’t giving it up without a fight. He had gotten a pack of basic sleeping gear, some crackers and granola bars, and a hunting knife with a wide blade, now cleaned of the blood. It wasn’t a bad start, and he had a cave to defend now, but he knew this wasn’t going to last. This was the Hunger Games – death was coming, to put it simply.  
  
The adrenaline rush was still pumping through his veins. It made detecting the footsteps along the rocks that much easier. He whipped around to see the District One tribute, who froze when John moved.  
  
“What are you doing here? Coming to finish me off?”  
  
“Not yet.” He said this so casually, with the same tone that he would comment on the weather, that John was startled. “I was looking for you, though. Nice hideout you have.”  
  
John edged around him as he walked down the path. He still had his knives, but he wasn’t using them.  
  
“What are you doing here?” He repeated the sentence slowly and carefully, so there was no miscommunication. Whatever he was going to do, John wasn’t going to let him get away with it.  
  
The boy turned to him and stated, “I propose an alliance.”  
  
John couldn’t help but stare in bafflement. _What the hell was he on about?_

**Author's Note:**

> My first Johnlock fanfiction, and my first fanfiction in a long time. Constructive criticism is more than welcome, and edits will probably be made for typos and such. :3


End file.
